The Wound

HARMONY BUTTON

It doesn't hurt as much as before, she explained,fingering the wound that was healing or seemed to be, as much as anything that gaping can heal. It was impossible to tell what kind of wound it was or hadbeen, the center pink and taut like a puncture or a burn, the edges flaky, rough and begging to be picked. The girl whose wound it was carried it carefully, cradled in the crook of her arm. She swaddled it in explanations that today's modern woman could have it all, after all.

She considered going vegan, pushing her thick hair into a chatter-teeth of beaded braids.

She considered telling the wound a story to make it sleep at night.

She considered leaving the wound on a church step in Iowa, somewhere warm and normal, in hopes of giving it a better life.

I've never seen myself that way, the girl shrugged, her fingers unconsciously picking at the edges. The wound was fussy, opening & closing its little mouth. I'm sorry, I really can't talk any longer. I'm sorry, she smiled and sighed, and ducked inside for feeding time.

Biceps

HARMONY BUTTON

World's not exactly the right place for beinga smallish woman with big pork chops. Fineif they're Michelle Obama ones, etched littlebulge eggs in lean-long gorgeous arms. World shouldstill be nicer to Michelle. Lady's got some wickedkind of excellent to put up with us & all that crapand still come up on smarts and fun-like dancing.Still, dear biceps, I am sorry. For such un-complicated parts, I have been critical. Backin the days when we were all together as one badass little boat girl, I kept on waitingfor you to bust out finer definition, as if you werea student's essay I could edit down to find theproto-thesis growing shapeless in the primordial oozeof an idea. But no. Arms, you just got thicker.And more powerful. Here's where we left off:I'm sorry for dissatisfaction. You were awesomethen, and even though it's been a year and manysince I could pull a single up, chin to the bar,I still appreciate your genetic sturdiness, yournon-wimpy here's-one-for-the attitude, yoursweater stretching broadness and youroffering to fight off all the scary thingsand the mean ones and the jackass men whoyell crude inarticulates as they squawk pastin their trucks while we are running, slowly,in the public eye and urban side streets atdusk, just to see us startle. Just to be in charge. Thank you, biceps, but we won't need yourpunching. Dumb-ass squawkers don't knowyo nice ass! is hypothetical abduction, twothought-beats away from fear of rape. Thank you,biceps, for your throaty growl, your eager knucklego-to services. When I was eighteen, I used to carrybear spray and a middle finger, appliedliberally. Now, I've learned to pet yourangry back the other way, take a deeper belly,focus on the swing and pumping rhythm that bringsyou and our heart back to steady steady. Thank youfor your willing, but we're too old and wise now forthe angry gesture, the mental brick through the backseat,the fictionalized confrontation that ends withnothing good but righteousness and biceps.

Harmony Button's work has been included in Best American Notable Essays of 2015, she has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Web awards, and she was awarded the Larry Levis Prize (Academy of American Poets). Find out more at harmonybutton.com